


sunshine in his veins

by orphan_account



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-09
Updated: 2015-01-09
Packaged: 2018-03-06 20:32:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3147677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He does almost everything effortlessly, and loving is one of those things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	sunshine in his veins

**Author's Note:**

> this is practically word vomit because i was reading sarah kay's No Matter The Wreckage and i was all "I NEED TO WRITE ABOUT THIS" and now we have this. usual disclaimer applies; hope you enjoy this little fic! <3

  
_“Love, for you,_  
_is larger than the usual romantic love. It’s like a religion. It’s_  
_terrifying. No one_  
_will ever want to sleep with you.”_  


\--

He was born into the world with an expression that said _I have seen this before_. He grows up into the kind of kid you'd expect him to be: thin fingers grasping at blocks and diligently stacking them up and putting them together, pointing at objects and asking, asking, asking. He pieced together ideas the same way he did with the blocks, navigated the world with these ideas and his knowledge, knew since he was eight that he was different from everyone else. He stumbled through life, stiff and awkward, head wrapping around notions of politics and social issues and the environment; nose buried in a book and teachers would always say, _I read that book when I was in high school!_ whenever they'd see him.

But this did not mean that he got along well with other people. Most days he couldn't stand them; all it took was for someone to carelessly (and at times rudely) comment on something and he would walk over, a cutting remark escaping his lips before his brain could process what he'd just said. And people would hate him for it, while others would admire his courage. This was a trait he developed over the course of time.

He would soon learn that the world isn't what he thought it would be - its state was something he had always denied in elementary - so he would fight for it. To fight for something you believe in was something he learned to love, and easily at that. He never found it hard to work, to love, to fill the gaps of his heart with something that makes him feel whole. His heart would expand and more gaps would be filled: his friends who would share the same ideals as he did, those people he loved and cared for, how he shows his affection.

And someday, a relatively huge space in his heart would be filled with someone whose hands are calloused from gripping paintbrushes and bottles too hard, his hands running over the lines on that person's palm and he reads their past, how they cut their thumb from a broken bottle, the knuckles wounded from self-defense from bullies and bar fights, their clothes stained with paint and their hair sometimes powdered with chalk, depending on the day. He would run his fingers over their tattooed skin, hands wrapping around their wrist where it said _this is where love comes to die_ , and he would read it over and over again, because love, to them, was very much alive. He would trace constellations on their back where freckles lined every space they could. The crook of that person's neck held secrets he whispered in the nights they held each other because the weight of the world would crush their shoulders and you get going when the going gets too rough and too much.

He would realize, one night, as they lay in bed together, hardly a handswidth apart, that loving this person, these people, would be as easy as grasping those blocks and putting them together the way he did all those years ago.

**Author's Note:**

> come say hi to me on my personal blog [colepenclerys](http://roseponine.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
